Later that evening, after Brandy was safely tucked in bed and told a bedtime story, and Adam had retired to his room or who knows where, Julian approached his father, who was sitting idle by the fireplace. A glowing flame danced feebly as its companions reduced themselves to a mere saffron glow illuminating the coals beneath.

    Julian wondered if his father was thinking of Caoimhe, for he knew that despite the fact that it had been roughly eighteen years since her passing, Galinarael was still haunted by it. He held her memory sacred—to the point that he swore to never remarry.

    And he never had.

    The hearthroom was an expansive space, furnished with cushions and draperies of various origins and colors. Somehow the collage of textiles was arranged in such a way that it did not appear tacky, in spite of the differences in style and design.

   Chairs were uncommon in most fae residencies, with only the wealthy or royalty as an exception. But Galinarael owned one chair, which he occupied. It was an exquisite piece, carved entirely from a solid chunk of reddish Mirth-Oak. Mirth-oaks grew to be quite large, so it wasn't uncommon for a singular log to be sufficient for the carving of a chair.

   Its upholstery was intricately woven from threads of gold and deepest red, and the armrests had been carved so skillfully they looked like intertwined roots. Ever since his childhood, Julian had been enthralled by that chair, begging his father time and time again to tell the tale of how he'd come to acquire it. Apparently, it had been a gift from the captain in Galinarael's seafaring days. It had been the literal Captain's Chair.

    The man stared somberly into the flames, but he was not oblivious to the presence of the human youth in the room. Julian stood near his father's chair, and the man redirected his gaze to meet the boy's.

   "Is something troubling you, son?"

   "I suppose you could say that. But really I'm just curious."

    Galinarael gestured for the boy to grab a cushion and make himself comfortable, but Julian remained where he was.

    "I just want to know," he began hesitantly, "Why you didn't do everything in your power to find him."

    Now, Julian was well aware of his own origins and the circumstances surrounding his birth and adoption. He knew he had a rightful place in this household and held no resentment toward it in the least, but the more he learned about Adam the more questions arose in his mind: questions of why, exactly, his father had not tried harder to seek out his biological son. He had broken other laws for the sake of peace, why not break one for the sake of his only son?

    Galinarael seemed puzzled by the boy's words, "Could you be more specific as to whom we're discussing, here?"

    "Adam. If you knew where he was since the time he was born, why didn't you find a way to get to him? I'm not accusing you of anything, I'm just genuinely curious."

   Galinarael smiled, but there was pain in his eyes, and his smile was sad. "I wish I had a good excuse, or a good answer. The truth is, without access to portals–and with severe restrictions placed on my own abilities–it was relatively impossible to reach him. Yet I had this peace, that if he was alive, he would survive somehow."

    "They abused him, dad. He's a wreck because of it. I know he's made his own share of bad decisions but a lot of that could have been avoided by a proper upbringing." Julian did not intend for his words to come out as an accusation, yet there they were.

    His father inhaled deeply, "And I have regretted it every day of my life. I know what you're thinking–I broke other laws and barriers. But this was a line that I, for whatever reason at the time, dared not cross. Ultimately I was so caught up in the war."

    "Yet you had the time to raise me."

    "It was a small slice of relief in an otherwise miserable era," Galinarael sighed. "And I'll admit there was some guilt that played into it–and some wild delusion that if I could at least raise you right, and keep you from harm, it would make up for whatever I lost due to my foolishness."

    "So Adam is right, you tried to replace him with me."

    "No. No. You were never a replacement. And you never will be. None of you is a mistake, do you understand?" The sadness was replaced by a deep seriousness in the man's jade green eyes, and Julian nodded. He did understand.

    "There came a point where I was convinced that not only was Caoimhe dead, but that our son had died also. I never completely gave up the hope that he might be alive, mind, but there was a time when I thought it would be better to believe he wasn't."

    "I know he's a master at holding grudges, but...did you ever ask him to forgive you?" Julian assumed a crisscross position on the floor, near enough to the hearth to ward off the evening chill.

   Galinarael nodded, "I have. He said he would not pander to my groveling."

   "Sounds about right," Julian muttered.

    "He'll come around eventually. He just needs lots of time. And patience."

    Julian was silent for a few beats, deep in thought. "I think maybe you should start entrusting him with major responsibilities. But subtly, so he doesn't mistake it as you forcing more chores on him. Give him some authority–not much, just enough to boost his ego in the right direction. It may help him see he has a place here, and that he is wanted after all."

    "Or it will give him a big head and he will become a greater monster than he already is capable of being."

   "Anyone is capable of being a monster," Julian reasoned. "I think Adam needs to feel important and wanted, and that's why he acts out."

    "I'm quite aware," Galinarael sighed.

    "He won't talk about it to anyone, but he's dropped enough hints, hasn't he? Shouldn't we be more compassionate?"

    "Of course. However, I worry he will mistake compassion for pity, and react adversely to it. He does not do well with receiving kindness, and as much as he needs sympathy and comfort, he doesn't do well with that either."

   "That's why I'm suggesting you give him some responsibilities. Maybe give him some of mine. I'd be willing to step down as eldest of the household, since technically that's his rightful role."

    Galinarael fell silent and stared into the flames once more, contemplating and weighing Julian's proposal. Adam was still an erratic individual, and funnily enough, his trust issues made it hard to trust him with things. Not to mention his temper, and his absolute disdain for almost everything and everyone. He hated to do chores if he was told to do them, but perhaps if he was put in charge of things, he wouldn't react so harshly? It was uncertain, for Adam's moods changed as quickly as the sea, and considering all the boy had been through, Galinarael guessed it was to be expected. But perhaps Julian was right.

    It couldn't hurt to try, anyway.

    "Very well. We will shift some of your responsibilities to him, at least to see how he handles it. Is there anything else you wish to discuss?"

     "No..." Julian rose from his place, and glanced at the timekeeper swaying on the mantle. "It's pretty late. I'd better get to bed. Thank you for listening."

   Galinarael smiled. "Anytime, son. Adam didn't bribe you into any of this, did he?"

    "No," Julian laughed. "It was all my own doing. Even if he doesn't respect me, I want him to feel comfortable here. I'm not trying to tell you how to parent," he clarified, "But this is his home, and we are his family. He believes he doesn't need us, but maybe things would be different if he believes we need him."

    His father merely responded with a thoughtful grunt.

     "Oh," Julian continued, "One last thing: I wouldn't force him. He doesn't want to be here, and I know we can't make him stay. If he chooses he just doesn't want to contribute to the household, let him go."

     Galinarael looked as though Julian had driven a knife into him. Julian recognized this, and though he wanted to he did not flinch.  He wanted to look away, but didn't waver. He knew how much it ate the man up inside, knowing his own son wanted nothing to do with him, but hadn't he said so himself that he expected it?

   Julian knew as well as anybody how much Adam disliked people, and he knew how much Adam wanted and needed to be alone and do things himself. He was a loner, and used to flying solo. Trying to get him to contribute to a family he had not been a part of his whole life, was like forcing a cube into a pipe. He was also an adult according to cultural standards, and it was plainly obvious that he could fend for himself.

   At last Galinarael spoke, his tone neither harsh nor gentle, "Thank you for coming to me on this matter. Have a good night, and rest well."

    Julian nodded and retired to his quarters, pulling off his boots and untying his wraps. He lay them neatly on the mat beside his mattress, blew out his lamp and climbed beneath the soft, thick blankets. They were cream-colored and made from a special kind of cotton that kept cool in the summer months and warm in the winter ones.

     His raven was asleep on its perch, and the silence of the room was comfortable. Julian found himself drifting easily into sleep; he felt lighter somehow, having conversed with his father, though he hoped he hadn't upset him too much.

    Just as his eyes were falling shut he felt his mattress sag on one side, and a figure curled up against his back. A whiff of cinnamon and cloves was all Julian needed to know who it was. He smiled and said nothing.

     A bony elbow nudged him, and he opened his eyes, expecting to have to engage in some form of conversation. But no words were spoken and Julian understood that this was, in his own strange way, a gesture of goodwill from Adam. Though it surprised Julian that Adam had dared enter the room without scent masking; typically, if he was going to sneak in, he'd have used his shadow to mask his scent and appearance. The fact that he hadn't, however, meant he was allowing himself to be vulnerable.

   And Adam did not often allow himself to be vulnerable, especially before his siblings.

    Julian didn't dare do or say anything, lest he anger his brother.